


Love Me 2 Times

by 51stCenturyFox



Series: Jukebox Heroes [2]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: First Time, Frottage, Kissing is my kink and I have no regrets, M/M, Oral Sex, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:24:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/51stCenturyFox/pseuds/51stCenturyFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/399019">No. 1 With A Bullet</a> </p><p> <br/>"Are these <i>silk skivvies</i>, Stark?"</p><p>"Yep," Tony confirms. "I allow only the finest to touch my junk."   </p><p>"Okay then," Steve says to that, because it sure sounds like a compliment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Me 2 Times

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [No. 1 With A Bullet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/399019)
> 
> Beta thanks to neifile7 and copperbadge

Steve doesn't know what to think when Tony quickly disengages and sits back on his heels, but a glance confirms Natasha's come in and is at the far end of the gym, Thor on her heels. Steve blinks. Maybe being able to hear over the sound of driving drums and thundering sound effects (Thor ought to like those) is a trick you have to learn growing up with this music. Tony is already on his feet and extending a hand to help him up as they approach. 

"Who did this?" Natasha points accusingly at the dents Steve made hitting the blue mat, and he colors with obvious guilt. His mouth and chin feel tender from friction with Tony's scruff and for once he's glad that he tends to blush and can blame it on exertion from a joint workout.

"I'm really sorry," he says, pulling on his cold, damp t-shirt as she examines the marks on the mat dolefully. "I do, uh, know my own strength, but you know, when you wrestle, you have to do the count..."

"You were sparring?" Thor asks Tony. "You should wear the iron suit to spar with Steve."

Tony, unbelievably, doesn't get into a snit over that; he just shrugs and returns to his workbench, hefts the armored boot he'd been soldering with the laser and addresses Steve. "You wanna come?"

"Yes," Steve says, quickly. "Sure do. Will. I mean, I will. Go with you."

Tony turns his head to the side to conceal a grin, but Steve doesn't miss it, although the others do. Natasha is already walking on her hands, fiery hair swinging, legs stretched high in a perfect diver's arc as she turns in a circle, then flips into a fighting stance and jabs. Steve grabs her fist before it connects, knits their fingers, and twirls her to the song that's playing. He's not surprised that she dances beautifully.

_Who made who, who made you?  
Who made who?  
Ain't nobody told you  
Who made who, who made you?  
If you made them and they made you  
Who pick up the bill and who made who?  
Who made who?_

Steve steps expertly, crosses their arms and leans back, spins Natasha again and ends with a low dip, then winks at her and smiles up at Tony, who, gratifyingly, looks impressed by his moves. _Two left feet, huh? Take that, Stark,_ he thinks.

"Want me to leave the music on for you?" Tony asks Thor. "Sorry, I don't have any Björk."

Natasha laughs. "Nice burn."

"Björk is a Goddess of Discord," Thor intones. "I greatly desire to father her children." 

"I think it's a...different one," Tony says, nonplussed. "Although I sorta hope it's not. Never mind. C'mon, mi Capitán. Lunch." 

"Yep," Steve nods. "Lunch."

In the team-only elevator it's quiet, and it stays that way; Steve isn't sure what to say after what just happened between them, except something's itching at him. "Uh. About Pepper."

Tony pushes the stop button on the elevator, regards him silently, waits, and he might as well have mirrored sunglasses on, or his iron helmet, because there's no telling what's going on behind that dark, steady gaze. Steve mentally kicks himself. _It's a different century, and maybe this didn't mean what he thinks. Or, he doesn't know all the details but Tony and Pepper are clearly together and he feels bad because he shouldn't have...he really likes Pepper and the next time he sees her he'll feel terrible, and well, maybe he and Tony, that was...was nothing anyway and he should just forget it ever happened._

"What about Pepper?" Tony finally asks.

"I...thought you were a couple."

"We're a couple," Tony confirms. "We have an understanding. It's cool."

Steve lifts his brows, tries to put on an _oh, I see, I'm very sophisticated_ expression, and knows he's probably failing at it.

"I mean, I'm the only guy for her."

Cryptic. Steve tilts his head and thinks about Pepper and Tony on the deck holding hands at the get-together last week at the penthouse, how happy they looked, and how it doesn't seem fair that Tony always gets to do whatever he wants. Pepper, determined to make spaghetti sauce even though the whole shebang is catered and finally resorting to randomly dumping stuff in the pot because it doesn't have enough flavor, laughing over the stove as Maria Hill holds back her hair, trying to make a ponytail to keep it out of Pepper's face as she's stirring and grabbing spices like a maniac, Pepper dancing barefoot with Maria by the pool. And then a lightbulb goes on. 

"So don't worry, alright? At all. I'd never do anything that would hurt her. Seriously." He nudges Steve's shoulder with his own. "Okay?"

Steve nods and looks at the floor. He's not actually shy at all, but the air between them is different now that they're alone again, and Tony's being sincere. "Okay, I just never-"

"I gathered that. So," Tony says, pushing the start button again. "Shawarma? "No." He snaps his fingers. "Sushi."

"I haven't had it. It's raw fish, right? I mean, in field survival situations I had to eat fish raw a couple of times, but to be honest, I don't think I'd pay for it."

"I'm paying," Tony declares, as the elevator comes to a halt on Steve's floor. "It's tax-deductible as a team expense and also, I'm a billionaire."

"Thanks for reminding me," Steve snorts. "But I need a shower if we're going out somewhere." Tony gives him a look. "Just, give me ten minutes?"

"Take fifteen," Tony says, following him out. Like a few of the other Avengers, Steve has a furnished apartment in Stark Tower, slotted six floors below the penthouse/deck, living quarters sandwiched secretly between levels of R&D. It's more than he'd ever dreamed of as a kid, staying in a place like this, and less, too. He doesn't spend a lot of time in it. It's so modern and sharp-edged, and its sort of empty ( _okay, lonely,_ ) and so far above the noise and bustle of the city that he feels isolated, and he can't figure out how to work the Gaggia coffeemaker. But Steve's not complaining, and he'd already apologized for calling the building ugly.

Steve leaves Tony to futz around on his smartphone in the big, open living room and heads for the shower, dropping his workout clothes in a basket, and turns the water up high and hot. Hands on the counter, he examines his reflection up close in the mirror. He looks exactly the same. He doesn't look like a guy who's been making out with Tony in the gym, or a guy who's just had his pipes cleaned, by Tony, in the gym. He hadn't expected that when he'd rolled out of bed this morning. He breathes out and steps into the shower and finally, under the rushing water, pinches the bridge of his nose and just laughs to himself silently, shaking his head. _Tony Stark. For Pete's sake._

 

Recovered, clean, and freshly dressed in a white t-shirt and khakis, Steve pads into the living room as the door buzzes.

"You gonna get that?" Tony asks, fiddling at the back of the widescreen television mounted on the wall. He's liberated a handful of wires and is clearly enjoying himself.

"Sure." It's a deliveryman with two brown bags that smell delicious.

"Took care of the tip already," Tony yells. "Standing account."

"Thanks," Steve tells the man and closes the door with his foot. He drops the bags on the kitchen bar as Tony tucks the wires away and turns on the TV. "What are you doing?"

"Just setting up something to watch. Also, your surround sound was fucked." A four-piece band fills the screen as Tony rifles through the bags and grabs plates and bowls. "See, you missed all this rock history, decades of it before we get to the majesty of metal, and that's very uncool. We should really start with Chuck Berry and Elvis, but who goes in order? It's a concert documentary about The Who."

"The who?"

"The band's name is The Who."

"Okay. But I don't have a copy of this..." Steve trails off. 

"JARVIS does, because I do, upstairs. JARVIS?" Tony says.

"Yes, Mr Stark?" The modulated voice answers.

"Pause the film."

"Paused, sir." The screen freezes and Tony waves a hand with a flourish.

"JARVIS, daytime cinema lighting," he says loudly, and the wide glass expanse of windows darken as subtle inset lights in the ceiling blink on in sequence. "Sorry I didn't hook this apartment up sooner. I thought it might freak you out to talk to a sentient computer. Little bit too future-y."

Shrugging, Steve glances around. "Are there cameras in here, too?"

"They're not on," Tony says.

Steve folds his arms. "Like the door to the gym was locked?"

"It was!" Tony protests. He doles noodles into bowls, finishes arranging their plates and tosses Steve a bottle of water from the huge stainless steel icebox. "But you were distracting me kind of a lot and I forgot that the new locks I engineered have passive facial recognition. It's great. They coordinate interocular distance vectors and base verification on a varying coefficient that..." He rips the wrapper off of a set of chopsticks and clicks them together. "...bores the shit out of you. Am I right?" 

Steve smiles broadly. "No, it's interesting. I get the idea. The doors know who we are." _So he was distracting Tony. Kind of a lot._

"On the money."

Steve accepts a plate. "This doesn't look raw."

"Thought I'd go easy on you today."

"Is it because you're a philanthropist?" Steve deadpans.

Tony ignores that. "Dim sum. And noodles, because you're a growing boy." He points out the various unfamiliar dumplings, and Steve recognizes spareribs. They settle on the sofa in front of the television, and Tony sets his cold bottle down on a magazine atop the glass table.

"Hey!" Steve moves the water, wipes off the glossy cover with the edge of his fist. "Careful."

"Playboy," Tony remarks around a mouthful of noodles. "Are you a sex fiend?"

"It's Clint's," Steve explains. "He left it in the gym."

"Don't lie to me, Cap. You're a dirty, dirty pervert. JARVIS, roll film."

"Rolling, Mr Stark," JARVIS replies, and Steve is glad the computer doesn't editorialize about his reading material.

The Who wraps up their first song as they eat, launches into My Generation and ends the song by smashing their guitars and blowing up a set of drums.

"Why would they do that?" Steve asks. "What's the purpose?"

"Why did you kick a punching bag into the wall this morning?" Tony replies, nibbling a taro cake. "Because you could. And because it's _fun_."

"Darn it," Steve says. He's dropped a dripping potsticker on his lap, and before he can find a napkin, Tony nabs it artfully with his own chopsticks and raises it to Steve's mouth, watching as he eats.

"Darn it," Tony echoes. "You know, for a super-soldier, you don't super-swear very often."

Steve dabs at the front of his khakis. "That's gonna stain. It was in the USO contract. You weren't supposed to swear anywhere near the stage to avoid screwing up, and it kind of becomes a habit."

Tony wipes his mouth and takes a swig of water. "So you don't swear at all?"

"Not much," Steve answers.

"I'm gonna make you swear later," Tony tells him, eyeing him over the bottle before he crumples it, "But in a sexy context."

Steve almost chokes on a sparerib.

"It's a personal mission of mine." Tony's eyes are on him still, and Steve swallows, feels his pulse flutter, just a little. "In fact," Tony adds, shoving aside his plate on the coffee table, "I just moved it up on today's to-do list. What are we waiting for?"

"To finish the picture? Or just lunch?" Steve asks, his mouth full. "And maybe digest it?"

"We're not going swimming. We don't have to wait 30 minutes. Although," Tony waggles a finger, " _that_ is an unscientific myth."

"Hang on, Tony." Steve holds up a finger as he chugs water, but Tony's already yanking his tank undershirt off. "You move pretty fast."

Tony stands in front of him, liberates the bottle of water from Steve's hand and takes a pull. "I know. You mind?"

"Not really," Steve admits, pulling his own shirt over his head, and he doesn't, because sitting near Tony -- just being in the same space for the last half-hour, is making him feel unbelievably charged up. "I like it. It's future-y." 

Tony laughs and Steve grabs at the sides of his waist roughly and pulls him closer, running his thumbs along the curves of muscle showing over the top of his unbelted cargo pants. Steve glances up, past the gleam of the arc reactor, and sees Tony's eyes bore into him as he unfastens the top button, and then the rest. He yanks them down Tony's thighs, pulling him satisfactorily off-kilter on his feet, just a little, and squints upward again.

"Are these _silk skivvies_ , Stark?"

"Yep," Tony confirms. "I allow only the finest to touch my junk." 

"Okay then," Steve says to that, because it sure sounds like a compliment. He glances the back of his knuckles over the smooth, black fabric. He hasn't done this before, but he recalls the way Tony touched him earlier, how good it felt. He slides his fingers up over the waistband and slowly and deliberately eases the boxer shorts down, noting the change in Tony's breathing as he does. Tony's big, but not scarily so. Thick, but not too thick. Proportional, he'd call it. He pauses. "Nice junk."

"So I've been told. Good thing too..."

Steve pulls Tony nearer still and dips his head, nuzzles the patch of hair at the base of his cock without touching it, watches it twitch.

"...'cause there are some things money can't b-" his patter cuts off as Steve stripes Tony's hardening flesh lightly with the flat of his tongue and then dips to take just the head of his cock into his mouth. Steve sucks, tightening his hands around Tony's hips as his head tips backward. "Oh, _god_."

Steve stops and leans back, lets Tony's dick pull away. "You like that?" He certainly hopes so, since he's literally playing this by ear, first time and all.

"Yeah," Tony breathes. "Don't..." Steve runs a hand over Tony again, huffs a breath over bare skin. "Don't stop." 

Tony's fingertips are digging into his shoulders, and Steve likes that. He laves his tongue along Tony's cock and starts to suck again, softly, as slowly and thoroughly as he can, exploring. Tony tastes like, well, like skin, but he smells like soap and a hint of expensive cologne. Good. _Future-y_ , maybe.

"Oh, god, oh fuck," Tony murmurs, moving a hand to card through Steve's hair.

"I made you swear," Steve says, gratified, before getting back to it, loosening his grip to ghost his fingertips lightly under Tony's balls. He's rewarded with a moan, and stops, yanks down Tony's pants the rest of the way, his mouth still in high gear, taking Tony in as deeply as he can.

"What an accomplishment. I. Swear. I swear all the time," Tony replies, gritting his teeth. "Check it out, no really, look; Keith Moon has his earphones duct-taped to his _head_. Oh, oh yeah, there...just like that, yeah. Fuck."

And although Tony's running commentary about his novice technique is flattering, Steve sort of wants to shut him up, just for a while. But that's not all. That's only a justification. He grabs Tony's ass and turns him, pushing him into the corner of the L-shaped leather sofa.

"Are you manhandling me?" Tony asks with faux indignation, and Steve crawls over him, slides a knee between his legs and hand behind Tony's neck and looks him in the eye. 

"Shut _up_ ," Steve says, And then he kisses him. Tony Stark is the best kisser he's ever had the pleasure of planting one on, and the number one thing Steve wanted to do again after this morning is get their lips together again and really take his time, even though he's aching with want. Tony's hands stop agitating and come around Steve's sides, find their way to the front and he's working the loosened khakis down as they shift and move. Steve sighs into Tony, licks at his upper lip, drags his own mouth over the curve of the bottom one.

They kiss for a long time. Steve's hard; but he wants to drag Tony to the bedroom, stretch out naked against him on the big bed facing the view, roll around in the sheets and keep on doing this, but Tony's fidgeting a little, pushing up against him, and he breaks his lips away. For a moment or two, they just breathe, Tony's fingers tightening around Steve's waist.

"I really like this music," Steve murmurs.

"I knew you were trainable."

Steve should argue, but he doesn't want to wind Tony up again. Not like that.

"It's called Baba O' Riley," Tony says into his shoulder, stroking Steve's back. "People always think the name of this song is Teenage Wasteland, but it isn't. Hey, do you have any lotion?"

"Hmm?" Steve says, and Tony pokes his chest.

"Don't you dare fall asleep on me, North Pole. Lotion, you know, in the bathroom or wherever you keep your other Playboys-"

"Yeah, I do, hang on," Steve says, and quickly stands and makes for the hallway, but stumbles two steps in because of the (tragically ruined and forgotten) khakis pushed down around his calves. He drops to the floor onto both hands and a knee with a winded grunt.

"Doggone it!" Tony says, watching from the sofa."Fiddlesticks!"

"Fuck!" Steve barks, scrambling to his feet and kicking the pants into a wad against the wall as he passes.

"See?" Tony remarks. "Made you swear."

"That doesn't count," Steve argues, approaching with a pump bottle. He edges onto the sofa again as Tony coats his hand and suddenly he's not sure if he's ready for, well, for this. But today's a leap of faith anyway, so he leans into Tony and rubs his cheek over the soft hair on his chin then captures his mouth again, nudging his lips open gently with his own. Tony deepens the kiss and shifts his body slightly to wrap his hand around Steve's dick and tugs, slicking smooth over the stiff curve. He's already close and Tony's just started touching him.

"Oh," Steve breathes, and screws his eyes shut when he feels the length of Tony's cock against his own, and his expert hand wraps around the both of them, and when Tony starts to stroke them together, faster, his hips move on their own. 

Tony huffs hard near his ear and lets his head fall back against the sofa, but Steve presses closer. Rushed breaths mingle and it doesn't take long at all before Steve's feeling a wave build from the base of his spine, balls tight, nerves tingling from the luscious friction. He shudders and comes, hard, coating Tony's fingers, digging his own knuckles into the leather of the sofa.

"Fuck, Tony," Steve finally gasps, almost collapsing, but Tony isn't there yet so he brings his hand down to take control, gripping Tony's cock over his hot-slick-wet hand and raising the stakes with speeding strokes. His other hand cups Tony's jaw, smooths his thumb over his lips and when Tony bites softly, Steve pumps his cock harder, dragging him over the edge. Tony's nails make shallow dents in Steve's hips as he groans low in his throat and follows him down, forehead pressed to Steve's shoulder, and they're both panting like they've run four miles.

"Made you swear for real," Tony says breathlessly, delivering a soft punch to Steve's shoulder.

The widescreen flickers as Steve edges over to free Tony's leg, and when Tony grabs the back of his neck and pulls him back for another hot, deep kiss, Steve kisses him back.

 

_How do you think he does it?  
(I don't know)  
What makes him so good?'_

The follow-on story is now posted here: [3 The Hard Way](http://archiveofourown.org/works/406179)


End file.
